Just a Dream
by HowNowWit
Summary: A dream can change everything. Rizzles angst.
1. Chapter 1

Steam permeated the air, making each breath heavier and lighter at the same time. The hot water soothed knots and tense muscles, and as she turned her face into the spray, she imagined it sluicing her thoughts, her consciousness, her_self_ down the drain along with the grime and sweat. Until she was just an essence, a core of being. No more than that.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She focused on lathering, the physical sensation of hard soap against her skin. Soothing, quotidian. Normal.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Routine grounded her. After many a hard case, many a day of stress and sleep-deprived turmoil, she usually found solace in the small rhythms of life, those details that went undisturbed. Today, she needed that more than anything.

But today, her mind refused to be stilled. As she washed her hair, she thought of _her_, her friend. Her best friend, were she honest with herself. Such a natural train of thought, that well-worn path. Now, though, she treaded it with caution, but decided to test it: the strawberry-brunette hair, the tilt of her head as she spouted facts and statistics. The quirky combination of awkward social naïveté and genius IQ. The woman who owned a turtle—no, tortoise—for a pet.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

She grabbed a razor and let her mind continue, feeling the tension in her neck relax. She thought of the furrow of her friend's brow as she analyzed an autopsy. Her warranted smugness when she deduced instead of guessed. Her laugh…and her complete inability to detect sarcasm.

She smiled and felt the rest of the tension drain from her. She'd been stupid to worry.

Breathe in—

_A languid tangle of skin against skin, the warmth of arms encircling her waist. Hazel eyes, hazy with emotion. A hand, fingers laced with hers…a glow inside, where her heart should be…_

Her breath hitched, and she lost the rhythm of nothingness.

_No_. No no no no. The razor clattered to the floor and she pressed her forehead to the wall, the chill of the tile a welcome discomfort. Focusing on the sensation, she emptied her mind of the dream. But her body remembered…

_Stop_, she ordered herself. _Just stop_. _She's your friend_. She swallowed, a well of emotion clogging her throat. The rush of water became loud in her ears. It pushed at her shoulders, her back—obstacles in its path to oblivion. She felt lost in the torrent.

The same way she had felt lost when she woke that morning, after that moment, that split second on the cusp of consciousness when…she wished she were still asleep.

She closed her eyes, and the caress of lips, soft and loving, ghosted through her mind. For a moment, she allowed herself to relive the sensation, and wonder how it would feel if they murmured her name…

Her throat tightened as the first tinge of fear soured her stomach.

Did all women have dreams like that? The occasional hit into left field? The foul ball that didn't count? She loved her friend, but—

_That_ kind of love was completely different.

Her hands shook and she clenched them to contain the tremor. She had faced serial killers, rapists, psychopaths. Stared down the barrel of a gun and lived to tell the tale. But none had shaken her like this. She traced the ugly scar on her stomach. None of them.

Because none of them had threatened to undermine the very fabric of who she was, threatened a bond so essential, she couldn't imagine living without it.

_Why_? She made a fist and pressed the heel against the wall. Once. Twice. Why was this happening to her? Why now? Dammit. She was over thirty, for Christ's sake! This kind of thing didn't happen to women her age.

No. _You're overreacting_. It was just a dream. Only a dream.

She let out a long breath and ran a hand through her hair.

But a dream that now tainted something precious, a priceless friendship that could never be replaced. How fragile that friendship now felt. She couldn't deny that this…this _thing_ already colored her every thought, every action. _How can I look at her the same way after this? Laugh with her, talk with her, share secrets, eat lunch…_ There would always be that niggling doubt.

Disgusted, she shook herself. _What the hell is wrong with me? It's just a stupid dream. Get over it!_

In a burst of agitation, she twisted the nozzle off and swiped the shower curtain aside. She toweled off and wiped a clean circle in the fogged mirror.

Bracing her hands against the counter, she studied the woman who gazed back. Dark features, olive skin. Dark hair, with unruly curls already fighting gravity. Sharp face, but soft. Feminine. Curves in the right places. She found herself searching for stereotypes. She had never considered herself manly. Yes, her dress was generally slacks and a jacket, but it was a feminine cut. Comfortable. Her career as a detective demanded such. And she loved it, a career in which she excelled—a strong woman in a mostly-man's world. But so what? That didn't mean anything.

Did it?

She snorted. This was ridiculous. She grabbed her clothes and dressed, yanking a brush through her hair.

But what if—

Her motions stilled as she met troubled brown eyes again. They asked a question, and the haunted look in them, the glint of uncertainty, cut deeper than any bullet. What. If.

The sound of the lock turning was loud in the quiet apartment, and then the click of heels on linoleum. Her stomach dropped.

"Jane?"

Her eyes closed and she felt the prick of tears for the first time. _I want the old me back_, she thought desperately, feeling something in her close to breaking. _The me who wasn't afraid to touch her. The me who wouldn't search for hidden motives behind my every word or action._ She glared at herself in the mirror angrily, feeling betrayed.

She pressed her knuckles against the counter until it hurt. She had to make this right.

"In here," she called. "Almost done."

The familiar voice echoed through the cracked door, upbeat and soothing as always: "I stopped by _Le Von Truk_ on the way here. Hope that's okay…"

She said it with a French accent. The corner of Jane's mouth twitched—almost a smile.

"…and they had the canard on sale, so I brought—oh, hey Jo! Who's a good girl? Did you miss…?"

Jane ducked her head, fighting a smile even as her insides twisted with almost physical pain. Keys jangled onto the counter, and boxes shuffled against each other. Plastic crinkled and drawers opened and closed as dinner was started. Jo's nails tip-tapped on the kitchen linoleum. The sounds of domesticity. So…normal.

And yet _they_ never would be again.

Her shoulders hunched.

"…Jane? You okay?"

The concern in the question slashed through Jane's disquiet. She blinked and pushed away from the sink, standing to her full height. _Enough_.

"Coming." She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. _Enough_. Breathe in, breathe out.

"I'm coming—" She gave herself one last look, then flicked off the light and opened the door. "—Maura."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Maura arranged the place settings, aligning forks and knives, spooning portions of _Le Von Truk_ cuisine onto two plates. Steam wafted from the food, and Maura closed her eyes and inhaled, savoring the sharp scent and the satisfying rush of endorphins. She associated this food with comfort, and that's exactly what she and Jane needed—especially Jane. She glanced towards the bathroom.

Jo sat at her feet, ears perked and one paw raised: a silent monument to pitiful.

"Certain human foods can be detrimental, if not fatal, when consumed by canines," Maura informed her.

Jo licked her lips and tilted her head the other way.

"Begging does no good at all." Maura raised an eyebrow as she spooned capellini. "Do you think I'll risk your health and safety for a mere treat?"

Jo switched paws.

"You're impossible." Maura sighed and knelt, letting Jo gobble a noodle from her hand. "Don't tell Jane," she whispered, ruffling Jo's fur and rising to her feet once more. "She's got enough on her plate right now." She stored the canard in the refrigerator, making a mental note to take it with her when she left tomorrow.

As Maura worked to open a bottle of her favorite cabernet sauvignon, Jane strode through the hallway, her typical loose-jointed gait a little stiff. She came to a stop at the edge of the island. Maura took one look at her and re-wrote the entire script for the evening. Jane's shoulders were tense, her face forcefully relaxed. She wore sweats and a loose shirt, typical evening-in attire for her. But her eyes—the brief moment she met Maura's gaze, there was something…haunted in them. She hadn't seen a look like that since Hoyt.

Maura's grip on the bottle slipped, and she lurched forward, barely catching the wine before it crashed to the floor.

"Hey, you okay?" Jane asked, taking a step forward and reaching out a hand. She stopped just shy of touching, her brow furrowed with concern.

_I could ask you the same question._

Maura shook her head as she fumbled to pop the cork, wondering at her sudden clumsiness. "Yes. Just…lost my grip." The cork finally gave and Maura poured herself a glass.

The flavor was dry, fruity. More acidic than she was accustomed to. Maura studied Jane surreptitiously as she slowly sipped her wine, rolling the sharp flavor over her tongue. Jane's hands were fidgeting, constantly in motion. She seemed distracted. The new concern in her face had replaced whatever shadow lurked there. But something had been bothering Jane all day. Maura assumed it related to the case—a child rapist and murderer was on the loose, and the recent stall in evidence and leads had the entire team exhausted both mentally and physically. She wanted to give Jane a chance to talk about it, if she wanted.

"I thought we could relax," Maura said, gesturing to the food. "Eat in. Watch a movie."

Jane paused, her hand halfway through her wet hair. "Dinner and a movie?" Maura couldn't tell if Jane's tone held more panic or trepidation.

She glanced up, perplexed. "Yes. But if you'd rather—"

Jane waved her hand and flashed a smile. "No, it's fine. It smells great."

Maura blinked at her. Had Jane just complemented her food selection? Where was the sarcasm, the all-in-fun joke at Maura's expense? That was how it worked. Jane never gave in without a fight.

Jane cleared her throat, appearing uncomfortable, and eyed the two plates. "What were you saying?" she asked, her voice a little gruffer than its usual rasp. "You brought something?"

"Oh, I brought canard for Angela, should she want it."

Jane made a face. "If that comes from the appendage of some animal, I don't think she'll be interested—"

Maura's heart warmed to see a glimmer of the usual Italian attitude. She laughed and grabbed both plates, heading towards the living room. "Canard is French for duck." She paused. "And, in aeronautics, an airplane with horizontal stabilizing and control." She glanced over her shoulder to see Jane following with the silver. "Angela has already tried it once. And loved it, I might add."

"The plane or the duck?"

Maura rolled her eyes, then frowned. _I've been spending too much time with Jane_, she thought with a fond shake of her head.

"Did Ma _know_ it was duck?" Jane countered, raising a thin eyebrow. It was almost a smirk.

Maura hesitated—more for theatric's sake than anything else—as she deposited the plates on two TV trays. "She knew it was a species of avian, yes…" she hedged.

Jane snorted, but didn't retaliate as she arranged the silverware. Maura stood in growing disbelief as she watched Jane work, once again knocked off-balance by Jane's pensive silence. Where were the hand gestures? The eye rolls? The Italian dramatics and banter? Maura had practically walked into that lie of omission, and now Jane would not call her on it.

The ground kept shifting beneath her, and Maura began to realize she had to tread carefully. She was used to social awkwardness, yes. She had a lifetime of experience from which to draw. But with Jane, the sensation was novel and unwelcome. With Jane, she never had to guess. Never needed to censure her thoughts or actions. Never needed to worry about crossing a line, editing her performance to satisfy the other. With Jane, they were simply themselves. They worked.

Until now.

The thought, however overly dramatic, left her feeling desolate. Which was ridiculous, because Jane was standing _right there_, not three feet away.

"Did I mix up the dinner and salad forks?" Jane asked without looking up.

"What?" Maura's eyes went to Jane's hands as she aligned the last knife. She frowned. No, the setting was just fine. Immaculate, in fact. She was at a loss until Jane glanced up at her with a crooked smile, a teasing glint in her eyes.

_Oh. Sarcasm_.

Something nudged into place, like a teetering foundation block newly settled, and Maura felt herself returning Jane's smile.

A strand of damp, curly hair fell into Jane's eyes and she shoved it away.

"You know," Maura began, in her element once more, "it's not recommended to let hair air dry. Especially long, thick hair like yours. The oils condense and gather near the scalp, promoting further build up at an accelerated rate and darkening the roots. Using a dryer and appropriate products would prevent that."

Jane considered that a moment, then put her hands on her hips. "You saying my hair's dirty?" The strand fell again and Jane huffed, preparing to toss it once more.

Maura reached out and took hold of her wrist. Jane jerked at her touch, but Maura ignored it and tucked the strand into its proper place. "There." She arranged the curls so it wouldn't escape again, then met Jane's eyes as she let her hands drop. "And of course not."

Red creeped up Jane's neck and suffused her face. She shifted uncomfortably and swallowed.

Fearing she had crossed some boundary—and not wanting to interrupt their now comfortable exchange—Maura quickly stepped away and headed into the kitchen.

After a moment, she heard Jane follow.

Maura snagged her wine glass and filled it up. She indicated the bag on the end of the counter. "Oh, I brought your beer too. You were running low the last time I was here."

There was no response. She glanced up and her motions stilled at what she saw: Jane, head bent, her hand tilting a beer bottle to study the label. But that wasn't what sent a shock of worry down Maura's spine. Despite the angle of her head and the curtain of hair partially concealing her features, Maura could read the expression on her face. Jane appeared…choked. Teary. Distraught, even.

"Jane—" Maura began, fearing she had done something wrong.

"Thanks, Maur," Jane said, her voice somewhat strained. She cleared her throat, shifted her weight from one foot to the other. "Thank you," she repeated, quieter. Then she looked up.

Her expression made Maura catch her breath.

Jane stared at her a long time, and Maura held her gaze. _This is it_, she thought. _Now she'll open up_. _Reveal whatever demon weighs on her shoulders_. Maura kept herself open, reassuring, expectant. But as the exchange lengthened, the air shifted. Something changed. She sensed that Jane was searching _her_ face, looking for something, perhaps even asking a question. Her gaze flicked between Maura's eyes, a spark of hope or desperation in the jerky movement. Maura leaned forward. Jane's lips parted, but no sound emerged.

"What is it?" Maura finally murmured. _Talk to me!_

Jane's face froze, then she blinked. The light faded, died, and Maura was helpless to do anything but watch it happen. Jane turned away, and Maura's hand extended towards her retreating back without conscious thought.

"What movie did you want to watch?" Jane's voice echoed from the den, giving it a strangely hollow quality.

_What just happened?_ Breathing deeply, Maura waited a moment before following, trying to reconcile the relatively minor interaction with the disproportionate emptiness in her chest. Disconcerted, she took a larger than normal sip of wine. She felt like she had missed something, participated in an entire conversation without being aware.

When she returned, Jane was already settled on the couch. Jane patted the cushion and Jo hopped up between them, leaving Maura to sit on the opposite side. "Yeah. Hey, girl," Jane murmured, bending down to press her face into Jo's fur.

"I brought Moneyball. I know how much you like it," Maura said, trying and failing to banish a sense of rejection as Jo occupied the space next to Jane.

Face softening, Jane smiled and glanced at her. "Thanks."

They ate. Maura thought the change in routine—eating while watching TV—would be freeing. But instead the sense of not-quite-right wrongness continued. During the movie, Maura felt Jane's eyes on her more than once. The one time she looked over, she caught an odd mixture of wistful determination in the flickering light cast by the screen. Jane gave her a polite but empty smile and turned her attention back to the movie.

When the credits rolled, Maura turned the system off with the remote and they sat in the dim room, silent. Jane slouched into the cushions, her gaze distant as it settled on the far wall. She seemed lost in thought, content with the silence. No, not content. But…resigned. At Jane's thigh, Jo breathed heavily, her legs twitching in some doggy dream.

Maura brought up the case, hoping to prompt Jane into whatever topic frustrated her. But Jane rattled off leads and plans—full work mode. "Frost volunteered to stay late. I owe him one," she finished. She pointed a finger at Maura. "But don't tell him I said that," she warned with a half-smirk.

"I'll keep that in mind." She raised her eyebrows. "Dirty Robber tomorrow night?" she asked hopefully. Tomorrow was Friday, and she knew Jane would want to unwind with Korsak and Frost.

Jane picked at a stain on her sweatpants. "I think I'm busy. Tommy wanted my help with something."

"Oh."

The quiet settled around them, and for the first time in Maura's memory, it felt awkward.

That seemed to be the theme for tonight.

Jane finally sighed and patted her knees. "I'm tired, Maura. I think—I think I'll hit the sack."

Maura blinked. Thoughts raced through her mind, preventing her mouth from responding right away. Usually when she stayed this late, Jane offered her a bed for the night. Maura had even brought her duffle to replace the clothes that would need laundering. But Jane's tone, her words, her expression, they all added up to one thing: "please leave."

"Of course," Maura said and hastily stood. She smoothed her dress with her hands and made a show of gathering her things. Surely she had misread Jane's cue. Any minute now Jane would laugh and ask what the hell she was doing and say, "Don't you know sarcasm when it smacks you in the face?"

Jane walked her towards the door, and Maura felt her stomach drop with each step.

"Thanks for dinner, Maura. And the movie. It helped. Things've been stressful lately." Jane glanced away briefly, and Maura missed the flash of emotion in her eyes.

"Anytime," Maura said, trying to convey more with the simple word. _Don't pull away from me. Whatever I did, I'm sorry. Trust me. Confide in me. I need you as much as you need me…_

Jane nodded and opened the door. "See you tomorrow."

…_Or maybe not_.

Maura's face fell, and she stepped into the hall before Jane would notice.

"Hey."

Maura turned—and found herself wrapped into a quick but complete embrace. She let out a breath of surprise, then sank into the reassuring warmth. The fist in her chest loosened slightly, and she closed her eyes to soak in the welcome comfort. But before she could return the gesture, it was over, and Jane pulled back.

Leaning against the doorframe, Jane offered her a soft smile. "'Night." The raspy quality of her voice, the tousled mess of hair, the casual clothes and casual posture, unaffected and genuine… It was all so…Jane.

So why did it sound like '_goodbye_?'

"'Night," Maura repeated. She wondered if Jane heard the defeat in her voice.

As Maura walked to her car, pulling her jacket closed against the chilly wind, the bitter tannins from the wine coated her throat, and she decided that particular label was no longer her favorite.

* * *

A/N: Okay y'all. This story was originally intended as a one-shot. But people wanted more, so you got more! Ask and you shall receive. :) So. This chapter's depressing, but fear not. I'm a full-fledged Rizzles shipper. There will be a happy ending, even if it's not in sight, even if it's not for 2 chapters or 20. I'll get there eventually, but Jane and Maura have a few things to work out in the interim.

Reviews make me happy, and they make me write faster! So what'd'ya think? More?


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: For those space-time continuum junkies out there—this story's kind of AU, in that I'm picking and choosing events from the show to include or ignore. I can't place it at a particular point (but I'd say early in the series…maybe season 2ish?) so just go with the flow if you can and keep an open mind :) As always, reviews make me happy.

Slight trigger warning: discussions of violence and rape as pertaining to a case

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Rizzoli & Isles; I'm just having fun with them and not getting paid for it.

* * *

A coffee mug slammed down on the table hard enough to slosh half its contents onto the already much-abused wood.

Jane didn't move, didn't even react. She found she'd been doing a lot of that lately. The realization disturbed her enough to cause a fizzle of worry, but she kept her eyes on her own mug, swirling a stirrer through the black liquid and watching the steam rise and dissipate from the dark vortex.

Breathe in. Breath out.

That wasn't working so well anymore.

A rag whipped over the growing spill and a familiar hand proceeded to scrub the spot rather viciously. The scent of freesia assaulted Jane's nose and she steeled herself for the expected explosion.

"What is wrong with you?" The hiss came close to her ear.

Jane removed her chin from her hand and began massaging her temple. "Ma, not now."

"She. Is. Your. _Friend_," Angela continued, ducking down further to try and catch Jane's line of sight. "She's hurting."

Jane winced. "And I'm your daughter, Ma." Her voice sounded tired and dull to her own ears. "I'm hurting, too." _If only you knew…_

Stanley cleared his throat and glared in their direction. Leveling a glare of her own, Angela straightened and waved her hand dramatically, indicating her other hand that was still wiping the table with the rag. She gave it a particularly vigorous scrub that was almost an insult. Stanley huffed but didn't comment.

Angela turned back to Jane, lowering her voice. "What happened?"

Jane massaged a palm, rubbing the white scar tissue like a worry stone. "It's—" Her throat tightened. "Nothing." She watched her fingers work, not wanting to relive it, but feeling her mind already worrying the now-familiar tangle. The last few weeks had been difficult. She thought she could push the incident away, allow time to age the dream into forgotten memory. It was a decent plan. After all, that was how life worked. Time eroded details and hazed the present into past. It might have worked. Would have worked, if she hadn't—

Dreamed. Again.

And again.

Not regularly, and not all of them were erotic—but every single one involved Maura, and all were romantic in some fashion. The vague concept of togetherness like a cozy blanket. Details and little things. Touches. Holding hands, a warm embrace. The minutia of a shared life that added up into something much bigger than mere words and labels could express. Well, maybe one word…

_Stop_. Jane tightened her fist and cut the thought off.

"Whatever it is," Angela continued, breaking into Jane's rapidly spiraling thoughts, "you need to clear it up. You're getting baggies, right under—" Angela reached out.

"Ma," Jane said tiredly, knocking the hand away.

Angela put the hand on her hip. "Well, you won't attract any young men looking—"

_Oh, God. Please not that…_ Her shoulders slumped, and she felt the resistance puddle out of her with the motion. Her arm _thunk_ed onto the table.

Apparently seeing Jane's defeat, the bluster went out of her mother, and the furious rag-scrubbing ceased. Jane felt a hand cover her fist and rest there. The small, innocuous contact shouldn't have been so soothing. "Janie," the nickname came softer, "I'm worried."

Angela waited, but Jane refused to answer, afraid if she did, she'd either cry or confess everything.

"I walked in on her crying last week."

_What?_ Jane's head came up and Angela nodded in answer to the unvoiced question.

"Do you know what she said to me? When I asked her what the matter was? When I asked if it had to do with you?"

Jane waited, almost dreading the answer.

"'She won't let me in.' And you know what else?" Angela's eyes bored into Jane's, as though Jane wasn't hanging on her every word. "'I'm accustomed to being alone…but she isn't.'"

Jane closed her eyes and tried to contain the wash of guilt. Unintentionally, she had pushed Maura away. Little by little, she'd conceded to her weakness. She was afraid—of herself, of changing what they already had. What if it showed? One slip, and she could lose everything. It was too big a risk. She had thought that with a little time and distance, things would go back to normal. She hadn't meant to hurt Maura—the opposite, in fact. Jane was protecting her. From…herself.

Angela, who had watched Jane's reaction, straightened. She seemed satisfied with what she saw, and Jane kept quiet for once. "Fix it," Angela said, no less an order for the soft tone. "I don't like seeing my girls so at odds."

Jane watched her mother walk back behind the counter, noted her customer-friendly smile as she greeted an officer. _And what would you say if one of your girls liked other girls, Ma? Hm? What would you think then?_

_No_, she thought, her gaze dropping to her coffee once more. _Not 'other girls.' Just one girl. One amazing woman in particular. _

Jane's eyes went to the elevator. _The woman who I've made cry_. Jane rubbed her forehead, thinking of the past few nights. _And who's made me cry in return_.

"Jane."

She looked up and saw Korsak, his head stuck around the entryway, face grim. Coffee forgotten, Jane grabbed her jacket and rose from the stool. "What is it?" she asked as she shrugged the jacket onto her shoulders.

Korsak pointed toward the bullpen as they walked. "We've got another letter. Frost is running it through the system now. I was just headed down to the morgue. Dr. Isles had some evidence from the last victim she wanted to—"

Jane waved her hand. "I'll go down." She'd been avoiding the morgue more often than not. It was time she stop letting her personal life interfere with her work.

Korsak's eyebrows rose, but he gave her a nod of approval and a small smile. He hadn't said anything, but she knew he had noticed the strain between them. He cleared his throat and fiddled with the papers in his hand. "You know, if you ever need to…" he trailed off and dared a glance at her. The word _talk_ hung there, avoided like the plague.

"Yeah, yeah," Jane said, giving him a shove on the shoulder and rolling her eyes. She decided not to tease him about it. "Thanks," she said, voice low, once the solemn moment had passed. "I'll be back up in a few," she called over her shoulder as the elevator dinged and she stepped inside. Jane rubbed a hand over her face, feeling the sleepless hours starting to catch up with her.

Actual detective work wasn't like on TV. It involved long hours, dead ends that lasted for weeks, months. Their current case had been on the back burner for nearing on six months. A serial rapist and killer who selected his victims—all women—based on their license plates, stalked them, and then…. Well.

The latest victim lay on one of Maura's chrome beds downstairs.

The papers had dubbed him the Highway Helper. A stab of anger sizzled through her. She hated publicity. It only gave the monsters more fuel for their sick fire. A few weeks ago, his MO shifted. He started leaving letters and clues, with the license plate coded into the note. Arrogant bastard. So far, her team's decoding had been too late each time. But that was about to change. Jane knew he would slip up. She could feel it in her gut.

Downstairs, she found Maura suited up and bent over a body, gloved hands buried in a chest cavity. Her face was clinical, detached but focused in concentration as her hands worked. Jane's lips quirked in a half-smile. Just a typical Friday.

Jane paused in the entryway. She almost felt as though she was trespassing. The chilly air sent goosebumps racing along her arms, and she rubbed them absently. The light over the table was too bright, but it highlighted Maura's hair, making it appear almost blonde beneath the harsh illumination and giving it an angelic halo. Despite the macabre setting, the effect was…it was quite…

_Geez_. Jane shook her head at her own foolishness and stepped across the threshold. She approached the other side of the table, trying to find her usual comfortable openness, the easy casualness that now seemed so elusive in Maura's presence. She glanced over the body. The chest cavity was wide open, and Maura was currently detaching a lung.

Maura paused briefly in her work, and Jane knew she was aware of her presence. But Jane couldn't read anything from her. When the silence stretched, Jane cleared her throat. "Got anything of interest?"

"She was a smoker," came the instant reply. Jane blinked, but Maura didn't look up from her work. She wielded a scalpel and severed some deeper piece of anatomy, then pointed to the blackened tissue. "Note the necrosis from years of heavy use. I could safely hypothesize a pack a day, possibly since adolescence. An unfortunate habit." Maura selected the slice of tissue with forceps and transferred the sample to a vial.

"You're telling me," Jane said, eyeing the blackened mass. "Gives another definition to ugly on the inside."

Maura finally looked up, and Jane offered a smile as their eyes met over the body.

Maura's face was hard to read initially, curious and closed, as though Maura herself didn't know what she felt. But after a moment, she returned the smile. It was tentative, a shadow of the usual warmth and enthusiasm that used to greet Jane's appearance, but it was something.

Jane searched her face, wondering where they stood. She didn't seem angry, but rather, perhaps still worried about her. Confused, hurt, but still there, still willing and wondering. And…happy. Happy to see her. Jane's stomach clenched. That was even worse.

Jane felt her eyebrows tip up in the middle. _Oh, Maura. What've I done? _Her gaze danced over Maura's features and back to her eyes again. _If I could turn it off, I would._

The hazel eyes were steady, and Jane hated the new distance in them. But even as she watched, they softened. And, Jane imagined, feeling her heartbeat quicken, she saw a welcome warmth in their brown and green depths…

_Too far_. Jane forced her eyes away and down. _That's too far_. What would Maura call that? Projecting.

"Korsak said you had something?" Jane asked, taking a step back.

Maura didn't answer right away, and Jane willed the heat from her face as she sensed Maura's continued scrutiny.

"Yes," she said at last. She pulled off her gloves to make a note in her journal. "She was raped."

_Just like the others_. Jane's head rose. "Any DNA this time?" she asked hopefully.

Maura glanced up and gave her a smug little smile. It was almost evil. "I'm running it now."

Jane grinned. "That's great." She crossed over to the machine and tapped the screen, as though she could will a match to occur. "I knew he'd slip up," she muttered.

"It's possible we won't get a hit, of course," Maura said, moving to stand beside her. "If he's not in the system…"

Jane shook her head and took hold of Maura's forearm. "But still, it's great, Maur." She gave it a squeeze and flashed Maura another satisfied smile before the full impact of her action sank in. She was holding Maura's arm. Her smile faltered.

_Is that too friendly? Did I used to do that?_

Jane released her arm as though burned and turned away. "Let me know if you get anything else."

She was halfway across the room before Maura responded. "Why do you do that?"

Still distracted, Jane ran a hand through her hair. "Do what?"

Maura was silent long enough to draw Jane's gaze. Her face was solemn, confused, and tinged with hurt. "Pull away from me. You've been doing it the past few weeks."

"I have?" The lie sounded weak to her own ears, and Maura didn't dignify it with a response.

"It's unhealthy to suppress emotions."

Jane's head snapped up. What the hell did that mean? Was she suggesting…

But Maura's brow furrowed. "Is there something I did—"

"No, you didn't do anything." _Lie_. Even Jane could hear the bitterness in her own voice. She suppressed a dark chuckle.

Maura stepped forward in genuine, earnest concern. "Are you leaving? Are you planning a transfer?"

Jane stared at her. The woman honestly had no idea.

"No," Jane said quietly, unsure where the sudden rush of melancholy came from. "I'm not going anywhere." _Not physically, anyway_. Jane sensed Maura also heard the unspoken words.

"Well, then it's only logical that—"

"Did you want to have lunch?" Jane asked, desperate to stop the questioning. They hadn't eaten lunch together, not once since… Jane sighed. If she wanted to fix this, it was time she start mending the rift and learning to move past her attraction. It was an innocent invitation, and Jane vowed to keep it that way.

It killed her, the tentative hope that blossomed in Maura's eyes. "Today?"

Her mother's words came back to her: _I walked in on her crying…I'm accustomed to being alone._

Maura deserved to never be alone again. Not unless she wanted to be.

"Today," Jane agreed, although her voice belied the conflict raging inside. She wasn't ready for this.

From Maura's expression, she saw it too, and Jane quickly turned before she witnessed that hope die an untimely death.

Jane arrived upstairs feeling as though she had tackled two perps and shot a third—exhausted, emotionally drained, high, and numb.

"Frost rubbing off on you?" Korsak asked with a chuckle when she sat at her desk.

"Hey," Frost said, shooting him a dirty look.

"How's that letter coming along?" Jane asked, ignoring the jibe.

"Narrowed it down to a few possibilities," Korsak said, moving to stand behind Frost's chair so he could watch the screen. "We're waiting on those to come back."

Jane nodded, taking a deep breath and trying to regain her equilibrium. Her nerves. That was something else that had taken a beating over the past few weeks. The case wasn't helping. She wondered if there was any more coffee…

Frost and Korsak started joking—well, nagging each other was more like it—and Jane tuned them out, still preoccupied with her own dilemma.

She tapped her fingers on her desk. _If you want what you had before, you have to be willing to work for it_, she reasoned with herself. Maybe it would get better over time. After all, that small dose of Maura was only so intense because of the tension between them. Once that dissipated, they could return to normal. Whatever normal was anymore.

Korsak and Frost went quiet. Jane looked up.

"We got a match?"

Frost cleared his throat. "Yeah." Quiet. Careful.

"What is it?"

Korsak this time: "BGS 513."

Jane pushed away from her desk and rose. "Well, did you run it?" She looked back and forth between the two, about ready to strangle someone if she didn't get a straight answer soon. "Whose is it?"

Frost finally met her gaze, and the look in his eyes made her stomach drop.

"It's Maura's."


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: My apologies for the long wait, guys. This one was hard to write.

In memory of Lee Thompson Young, Barry Frost will now play a larger role in this story.

My deepest thanks for the follows and alerts and reviews. They mean more than you know.

* * *

Chapter 4

"He's playing with us. The game got boring for him so he decided to spice it up a little." Jane paced as she spoke, gait sure and strong and furious. Barry stood to the side with Vince at his desk as they strategized.

Maura sat at Jane's desk, fingers folded, eyes glassy. She felt calm, aware of herself from a distance as she traced Jane's movements. Though her rational mind knew differently, an odd notion entered her head: that all of her spark and anxiety, fear and anger—all the things she should be feeling were channeled away and into the endless motion of the detective. The long strides, the swinging arms. Twitching hands and troubled brown eyes. Yet for all the seemingly frantic movement, there was a confidence that curved each motion into controlled chaos.

Maura blinked. Odd, how one noted details in times of stress. Her mind shifted, easily providing a clinical explanation: A defense mechanism, brought on by stimulation of the sympathetic nervous system as the body readies for action against danger. Dubbed the fight-or-flight response by laypeople. Maura shook her head, and felt brown eyes register the movement. Her eyes found Jane's. _Always so observant_…

Maura glanced away_. I'm babbling in my thoughts now._ Yet her heartbeat was regular, her breathing steady. She registered the signs of emotional shock, but was unable to disassociate from the sensation.

The brown eyes flicked away, and Maura watched Jane slash her hand through the air, cutting across Barry's response.

Yes. Jane had a purpose fueled by an innate drive, and…compassion.

Her breathing sped and a slice of heat seared her chest. Her mind ran through years of isolation. The companionship of a mother more aligned with a formal acquaintance than any maternal bond. Kisses on the cheek, achievements congratulated by the house staff. Holidays and weekends spent studying, reading, developing her mind while other children developed friendships, transient though they were. Her life was much better than some. She was not complaining. She had learned independence and self-drive at an early age. But for all that, she had been content. After all, how could you miss something you'd never had?

She watched Jane knead her hands, like worry. Like compassion.

_Only after you've had it_, she answered herself. _And lost it_. The chill in her heart contracted. She hadn't expected Jane's withdrawal to hurt so much. It wasn't overt, nothing malicious. Just…a drifting apart. A retracted hand wrapped in smiles and diverted gazes. Too gradual and too easy, to break something she thought unbreakable. It made her realize how co-dependent she had become, how much she leaned on that fragile trust Jane offered, once granted so effortlessly. Was it normal, to be this affected? But _normal_ was never a word used to describe Dr. Isles, Medical Examiner. Maura closed her eyes, suddenly weary. Yes, the loss physically hurt. Maybe…maybe it would have been better had she never—

A hand rested on her shoulder, tugging her from her thoughts.

"Hey doc." She hadn't heard Barry approach—a testament to her distraction—and she glanced up into surprisingly knowing eyes that searched her face. His presence was solid without being overbearing, and it occurred to her how good a partner he was for Jane. "We'll get him," he said quietly.

She blinked. A serial killer had targeted her. She took a deep breath and shoved her tumultuous thoughts aside. Yes, the murderer. The Highway Helper. That was why she sat at Jane's desk in the middle of the day. Why her head spun and her hands felt clammy. She had seen the evidence herself, undeniable: her license plate coded into a typed letter. She was the next victim in line. The woman lying downstairs with a recent Y incision flashed through her mind.

Barry squeezed her shoulder and nodded slowly, as though having read her thoughts. "We'll get him," he repeated, but the words held different meaning. It was comfort. Touched, a bit of the chill in her chest melted. He looked up and she followed his gaze to find Jane watching them. Maura realized she had missed the planning. They were at the action phase of the strategy.

"I'll take her home." Jane said, talking to Vince, but her expressive eyes trained on Maura held another conversation. _Alright?_ they asked, behind the simmering anger. "I want a detail at her house 24/7." She glanced at Barry and pushed off from where her hip rested against Vince's desk. Maura's eyes fell to her kit belt, the gun hugging her hips. "Give me a sec and I'll talk to Cavanaugh—"

"No." Sharp and soft.

Everyone turned to look at her. It was the first word she'd spoken, her first acknowledgment.

Jane exchanged a weighted glance with Barry, then stepped forward. Her voice was low, raspy. Concerned but ready to argue. "Maura—"

"No," she repeated. Quiet, firm, unyielding. Conviction straightened her spine. "I'm not letting him control my every action. I'm not stopping work and I refuse to cower at home. The sooner I find something, the sooner this will end." She rose from Jane's chair and met the detective's gaze. It said _strong_. It said, _I can be strong, too. If you let me. If you help me. _Maura smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt and felt Barry's assessing gaze. "If you need me, I'll be in the morgue."

Her heels on the linoleum echoed as usual, sharp raps loud in the hallway. Normally the sound meant confidence, filled her with purpose. Now, it was hollow.

Her ears strained backwards, listening. Hoping. And it was stupid, she knew. But she couldn't help it. She listened—for boots.

When no thump joined her clicks, her heart sank, and she felt a wash of the ice in her chest trickle down into her stomach. _What's wrong with me?_ She pressed a hand to her forehead. She should be terrified. But instead she was… empty. Was there something fundamentally flawed in her character that disallowed normal reactions? She twisted the ring on her finger. That disallowed the development of long-lasting trust in relationships?

Lost in thought as she waited for the elevator, the rapid _thump-thump-thump_s went unnoticed until they grew close. Her heart lurched and sped, and she turned to see Jane slow to a stop. Her weight shifted from foot to foot, and Maura waited, unsure what to say, unsure what to make of the hope fluttering inside.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, aware of the watching eyes from the bullpen. No doubt others had noticed the change in her and the detective's relationship over the past few weeks. She knew Barry and Vince had, though they avoided the subject. Why that should matter now, Maura didn't know, but she was wary of public displays of things that should remain private.

"Maura, don't do this," Jane said, taking a step closer and lowering her voice. "Don't ignore it." Echoes of Hoyt flashed in her eyes, and Maura's heart constricted. "It's real." Jane paused, took a deep breath. "It's real, but we can stop it. If you let—us. If you let us." Maura heard the unsaid _me_. _If you let me_.

Her gaze dropped to the floor.

"Please. Don't push me away."

Maura's eyes snapped up, and she briefly wondered if Jane was mocking her, if Jane even realized the hypocrisy of that statement. But she saw the concern in her face, and Maura nodded once.

"I'm not. I meant what I said. I trust myself more than Pike. If there's anything to find, I want to be the one to find it. Besides." She gestured to the building around them. "Where am I safer than here, surrounded by police?"

Jane rolled her shoulders and let out an exasperated breath. "Do your arguments always have to be so convincing?" An eyebrow raised, a hint of her usual humor making an appearance.

Maura let a small smile form. "Logic tends to do that." Her voice softened. "And I learned from the best."

Some emotion Maura didn't recognize flitted across Jane's face. She felt Jane hesitate. Saw her reach out a hand and let it drop.

There it was. That wall that wasn't there before.

Her own echo of that action—what was it now? A month ago? Two?—ran through Maura's mind, and she swallowed.

"Just—" Jane ran a hand through her hair, her eyes dipping before returning to Maura's face, almost pleading. "Just don't leave alone, okay? Promise me that? Come and let me know when you're ready to go?"

Maura's stomach churned. This was what she had hoped for, a nudge into their usual association. So why did she resent the sudden outreach? Why now? Why should it take the threat of death to— That was it. She didn't want it to take a murderer to bring them back together. It made what they had seem…shallow.

The thought made her almost physically ill.

The lonely hours, the awkward calls, the nights spent staring at the ceiling worrying and wondering why. They seemed to build in her throat. She tried to swallow, but they clogged and collected, and came out—

"Fine," she said, more sharply than she intended. She instantly regretted her tone.

Jane took a step back, not seeming aware of the small gesture of retreat. Maura wanted to apologize, but another part of her felt vindicated. Jane was the one who had changed, the one who was pushing her away. Why should she cater to such treatment? But, no. Jane was hurting. This Maura knew. And it was her inability to confide in Maura that had Maura so…flustered. Upset. But she couldn't force her lips to form the apology on the tip of her tongue.

They stared at one another.

This was what they had come to, Maura thought. Awkward pauses and pregnant silences. Sometimes Maura felt they communicated more through expressions than any verbal language. Words pushing them apart, a killer pulling them together.

The elevator dinged.

"Okay," Jane said finally. She stood a moment more, shifted her weight, searched Maura's face. What she found, Maura had no idea. "Okay." She turned and strode away.

Once in the elevator, watching Jane's retreating form and wondering at the growing ache within, movement to the right caught her eye, and she saw Barry contemplating Jane through the glass. His attention turned to her, and their eyes met just as the elevator doors closed.

* * *

Maura lost herself in work. She remained numb, caught in the comfort of science and numbers, and frankly, she preferred it that way.

Jane gave her mixed signals. She didn't know what to think. Well, yes, she did. She was starting to think their friendship was undergoing an irrevocable change. Something had shifted, and she had the sense it would never be what it once was.

She shook her head, focusing on the report she was typing.

The autopsy of the latest victim was unremarkable. Aside from the semen sample, no evidence surfaced that could be of any use. The m.o. was the same: signs of restraint, torture, rape, and eventual strangulation. Then the body was dressed and displayed in the bedroom.

Maura stared at the woman's body lying on her table, studied her face. Seventeen. So young. She had been in high school. Maria Devonshire.

Sorrow welled in her heart, and Maura attempted to stifle the display of emotion. Detachment was necessary in her line of work. Compartmentalization. It allowed her to do her job. But that didn't mean she didn't feel. Many failed to recognize the difference, assuming her clinical approach translated into heartlessness. But Jane had always understood.

Footsteps made her look up, and her eyebrows rose in surprise even as she smiled. "Angela." She leaned back in her chair. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" Angela had been a welcome presence in her life and her home, even more so over the past few weeks. Despite her daughter's behavior (or perhaps because of it), Angela had made her presence felt, which was never difficult for the Rizzoli matriarch. But to be honest, Maura genuinely cared for her, enjoyed the almost surrogate mother role that Angela had adopted. It made her feel…needed.

Now, the woman was practically bouncing with excitement, and she only gave the body a brief glance. Angela leaned forward as though revealing a secret. "Janie came down here, didn't she?"

Maura's smile faltered. "Yes."

Angela nodded as though it was her own doing. "About time." She watched Maura expectantly. "Well?"

This was not what Maura wished to discuss. Thoughts of letters and deep brown eyes intruded. She felt her carefully cultivated detachment beginning to crack. "I—" Maura glanced at the body again, and something akin to terror sliced through her middle as she imagined herself lying on that table, cold. Lifeless. Alone.

_Stop_.

"What's the matter? You're shaking."

Maura ripped her gaze away and met the concerned eyes of Angela—a brown hauntingly familiar. "I am?" She held out her hands and saw they were indeed shaking. She clasped them together as Angela rounded the desk and placed a hand over her own. The contact—normally so comforting—only served to coalesce the maelstrom she felt hovering just out of reach. She kept her breaths even and deep, practicing the yoga and mediation techniques meant to induce calm.

"Sweetie, what's the matter?" Angela's eyes darkened. "Did Jane do something?"

Oh, dear. Angela didn't know. Maura swallowed and decided to…what was that expression? Bite the bullet? She pulled her hands away and took a breath.

"Do you know of Jane's current case?" she asked carefully.

Angela frowned. "Yeah. Yeah, of course. The Highway guy the news keeps playing up. What about it?"

"I—" Maura cleared her throat, wishing she hadn't brought it up. Speaking it aloud only made the threat more real. The notion was ridiculous, of course, but she was finding her mind had trouble with rational thought today. "I am his next target," Maura said, quiet voice audible in the otherwise silent morgue.

A stunned beat. "Doesn't anybody tell me anything in this family anymore?" Angela exclaimed. She gesticulated wildly. A familiar gesture.

Maura felt tears pricking her eyes and Angela's face transformed, softened. "Oh. Oh, sweet dear." She bustled forward and Maura felt herself enveloped in a warm embrace, wrapped in the scent that she had come to associate with home and love and caring. She returned it.

"It'll be fine," Angela soothed, rubbing her hand along Maura's back. "Jane and Frost will find him. No doubt about that. And we'll stay over." Maura opened her mouth to protest, just when Angela's voice took on an edge. "But I don't see why she couldn't have told me before she left."

Maura's throat tightened as she drew away. _Left?_ Her mind stumbled for potential explanations. "I imagine Jane is very busy, and didn't want to worry you unnece—"

Angela waved away the explanation. "I'm a mother. I worry. It's what I do." She placed a hand on Maura's shoulder. "I'll always worry about my children."

Maura was about to respond when a dash of sky blue caught her attention. A small envelope rested on the corner of her desk. Innocuous. But suspicious at the same time.

"Did you put that there?" Maura asked as she reached for the square. She didn't recall getting it with her mail today.

Angela shook her head, also curious.

Maura turned the note over in her hand. Her name written in neat script on the face was the only decoration. A shiver ran down her spine, oddly ominous. She unfolded the flap and slid out an index-sized card.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

"What?" Angela's voice might as well have come from underwater. "What is it, Maura?"

She silently held out the card and Angela gasped, her hand going to her mouth.

_I always enjoy a fan of my work. We should get together and compare notes._

_P.S. – Your hair looks better up with that dress._

* * *

A/N: Not to inundate you with notes, but just FYI, I'm a fan of pseudo-cliff hangers. Not sure why. I hate reading them myself, but for some reason while writing, they just come out. Won't be like that all the time, but just fair warning. And this fic will focus more on the Rizzles relationship, not a crime plot.

So…thoughts?


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